Tarnished Compass
by JustLike2Write
Summary: Rick and team have fled the farm and are trying to survive on the run. They take refuge in an abandoned storage facility and things go downhill from there.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The farm was gone, and with it the security and feeling of home. They had been on the run for five weeks, stopping only long enough to grab supplies, and only as opportunities arose. The homes they had come across showed signs of abuse, neglect, and haste. On occasion, they found signs of the living, those—like them—running from location to location, trying to find somewhere safe. Rick and his group were not alone. There were others like them, doing what they had to in order to survive. Doing what they had to in order to keep each other safe: Keep their families safe, keep their children safe.

It would only be a matter of time before scavenging would not be enough: Heat, clothing, food, and a place safe enough to rest. Lori was beginning to show, and moving slower because of the baby. Glenn and Beth were both fighting an illness that concerned Hershel. Nasty chest colds that had the potential to turn to pneumonia.

They had all lost weight.

They were all exhausted.

They were all running on fumes.

Rick continued his hunt for a new home, a castle with guard towers and moats, a place to raise his family and grow old with those that fought beside him. He wanted more than just a place to rest his head, food to eat, a place to stop for more than a couple hours. He drove the lead car, with Carol, Carl and T-dog. Hershel, Maggie, Lori, Beth and Glenn had all climbed into the older suburban once the old pick-up blew a fuel line. Daryl continued to ride his bike, despite the growing cold and rainy conditions.

The Georgia weather had been kind, until the rain started 24 hours earlier, and with the rain came colder temperatures, and gusting winds. It was not cold enough to freeze—at least not yet—but it was just a matter of time before it would start. Winter was well on its way, and with it came shorter days, longer nights, cold and dreary mornings and sometimes ice and snow. Rick glanced at the rear view mirror and spotted Hershel behind him with his left hand on the steering wheel and Lori looking out the window toward the vastness of the land. Rick glanced toward Daryl, who continued to battle the weather on the back of that god-forsaken bike. The black rain slicker he had been using had started to fail, the seams had ripped, and the ties had broken off. Daryl would not leave the bike, not until he had to, and Rick had decided long ago not to push the issue. They had all lost enough, and more than likely, they would all lose a lot more before this was over.

Hershel sighed, and listened to Beth cough. She cleared her throat, tried to make herself comfortable on the back seat and continued to stare out the window toward the Georgia landscape. The branches of the chestnut, oak, and cypress trees swayed as the winds blew, and she glanced forward when the rain once again pelted the windshield.

"You doin' okay, Bethie?" Hershel asked, and glanced at the rear view mirror, watched her nod, and wrap the blanket around her shoulders. He looked toward Glenn who rested his head against Maggie's shoulder. His breathing was still ragged, but he had come through the worst of it. Antibiotics would not work—not on this—and what he did need: food, water, warm clothes, and a bed—they did not have. Hershel sighed, and tried to focus on what he could control rather than what he could not.

Lori turned in her seat and looked toward the three of them. They looked like refugees, recently escaped from a war zone. She reached for Hershel's arm as he gripped the steering wheel. "I'm sure Rick has a plan." She tried to sound reassuring, but the unease of her voice gave way to uncertainty.

Hershel nodded, leaned back and placed his elbow on the window-well of the door. "The engine," he said, taking a deep breath, "it's overheating again." He sighed tiredly and flashed his lights, then noticed Rick tap the brake lights in acknowledgement before he pulled off to the side of the road. Hershel followed, and listened to the gravel crunch beneath the tires. He cut the engine and looked toward Lori. "You stay here. I'm goin' to chat with Rick."

Lori nodded and smiled tightly. She looked toward Maggie, who was exhibiting symptoms of the flu that would eventually move to her lungs. She looked exhausted: Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, cheeks flushed, and despite her strength of character, Lori could tell she had been crying.

Exhaustion could do that: Bring the strongest of them to their knees, and cripple those who would otherwise be untouchable. Despite their strength and the desire to move on, they were all at risk—not just from succumbing to a cold or the flu—but from complete collapse.

Hershel raised the hood of the suburban, and then raised the collar of his jacket to keep the rain from dripping down the back of his neck. He turned when Rick stepped beside him, lean forward and carefully twisted the cap off the radiator. He sighed as the steam escaped and noted the low levels of water.

"We need to stop," Hershel said, and looked from Rick to the car at his back and then at Daryl who had turned his bike around.

"We can't—at least not yet," Rick said. He turned as Daryl set the kick and killed the engine. He pulled his leg over the seat and quickly unhooked his bow from the back of the bike.

Hershel took a deep breath and watched the rain continue to fall. "Glenn and Beth are sick and need time to heal, Maggie is coming down with this flu, Daryl is soaking wet and it's only a matter of time before he ends up sick—or worse, Carl is exhausted—"

"—We're all tired," Rick said, then watched Daryl walk past the suburban to watch for threats, "but we have to keep movin'—"

"—No," Hershel said. He winced against the rain. "I understand your determination to find a place, but unless it's just down the road, we're not going to be in any shape to get there unless we all stop—including you. Our bodies weren't meant to go this long an' this hard without food or sleep—" he looked at his watch, "78 hours, Rick, is too long. We're fortunate nothin' has happened—" he paused with a subtle shake of his head as Lori stepped out of the truck, the door squeaked as she closed it.

With her arms crossed over her chest to ward against the cold, she walked toward them, looked toward Rick who clenched his jaw and then looked away. "Maggie's sick—" she said, and looked toward Carl who continued to watch from the back seat of the car. She pursed her lips and forced a smile. Carl shrugged, and continued to watch.

"—Where're we supposed to go?" Rick clenched his jaw, and frowned. He looked toward the road before returning his gaze to Hershel. "There're walkers everywhere—I can't keep everyone safe battling them and us." He ran his fingers through his hair, sending droplets toward the ground. He was tired too, though he understood the need and urgency, he also understood the unpredictability this new life provided, and how quickly threats could change. He shifted his weight and placed both hands on his hips.

Hershel nodded, but maintained his stance. He scratched his chin, and felt the rain soak through his clothes. "I trust you, Rick, and I'm trusting you with the lives of my daughters—and I'm telling you, we can't go on like this—even if it's just for a day. We need time to rest."

"It doesn't have to be perfect," Lori said, and brushed her dampening hair from her face, "just someplace dry, someplace where we can collect ourselves—even for a little while." She turned and looked toward Daryl and then back toward her husband. "What happens when you get sick, or Daryl—I don't think he's had dry clothes since it started raining—at least we can—"

"—Don't you think I've thought of that," Rick snapped, frowning as he pulled his eyebrows together. He took a deep breath and paused long enough to look toward the car he had been driving and noticed Carl looking toward him. Rick exhaled and nodded. "Couple more hours," he looked at Hershel, "we'll find somethin'." He replaced the radiator cap, placed his hand on the hood and slammed it shut. For a moment, he held Lori's gaze, before nodding toward Daryl and turning to walk back to the car. He knew what they needed, and he knew they were all looking to him for answers he simply did not have.

Lori sighed and returned to the passenger seat of the suburban.

Hershel paused at their cold interaction. He clenched his jaw, took a deep breath, and looked up in time to watch Daryl cough and then spit before reattaching his bow to his bike. "You alright?" he asked.

Daryl nodded, swung his leg over the seat and quickly started the engine.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It was less than an hour later when Rick pulled off the side of the road. He turned down a short paved driveway, hidden with leaves, branches, and garbage and parked. He got out of his car and motioned toward the storage units.

Time has a way of changing things. The storage units remained untouched since the start of the illness, and as a result, vines had grown and covered the six-foot fencing. What had once been a place to store possessions, had become a warehouse of lost memories. The units, organized by number and size, were positioned to the left. The Sheds were positioned to the right, hosting two RVs and a boat. The gate remained locked, the pin pad broken do to a fallen tree limb.

The rain continued its downpour.

Rick and Daryl worked the gate, managed to pull it open and then drive through. Daryl closed it after Hershel drove past, and then followed them to a section near the back—away from the view of the road—and where two of the largest storage units were unlocked. Both units faced the open-ended field behind the facility, surrounded by trees.

The units would provide a temporary shelter. Corrugated siding reinforced with metal supports lined the exterior walls. Metal gates with mismatched locks, were meant to be a deterrent for would-be thieves. Garbage, leaves, branches and nuts had collected over time near its foundation and water continued to stream across the pavement toward the back, taking with it smaller bits of debris and leaving narrow and widening trails in its path. Hershel was out of his truck and had the rolling gate of the end unit up before Rick could stop him. Despite the rain, it was dry inside and large enough for Carl to exhaust himself running from the front to back, and to the front again. Hershel smiled, clapped his hands together and turned toward his daughters.

Rick parked the suburban and the car next to the building, close enough to provide cover should they need it, as well as a quick escape route. He motioned toward T-Dog to grab a weapon and for Daryl to join him.

"I want to check this place out before anyone gets too comfortable," Rick said, watching as Carol pulled the blankets, sleeping bags, and pillows they had collected over the past few weeks from the back of the suburban and toss them onto the cement floor. He closed his eyes and shook his head in defeat.

Glenn helped get Maggie comfortable against the far wall, wrapped in a sleeping bag. While Hershel helped Beth get situated next to her.

"Ain't much here," Daryl said, shouldering his weapon. He looked around, and noticed the locks on the units, a few vacant vehicles, and broken branches that had littered the driveways as well as the roofing. "Nobody's been here in a while." He wiped his brow, pushing his bangs upward.

"Maybe… but we still need to check." Rick felt the cold and rain through his jacket, and then noticed how drenched Daryl really was. His hair clung to his scalp, and his clothing hung off him, a steady stream of rain fell from the cuff of his jacket. The rain slicker had failed long ago.

"Bang on the gates," Daryl said, brow furrowed. He rolled his eyes and said, "If there're walkers inside—they'll let you know—just don't open the damn gate. I'm goin' huntin'." He turned toward the fence line.

"Not alone," Rick said, pulling him to a stop. "You're damn near froze an' soakin' wet—I can't have you gettin' sick."

"We need to eat," Daryl said, "an' unless you've got food stashed—they," he pointed toward the group, now gathered within the unit, "need to eat too—shit." He wiped the rain from his eyes. "Nobody here knows enough to do us any good out there—an' I'm tired of shoe leather." He turned toward the fence.

"What if a herd shows up?" Rick said, again, pulling him to a stop.

"Then leave." Daryl turned again toward the fence. "I'll catch up," he shrugged, "if I ain't dead." He slipped through a narrow opening of the chainlink and disappeared into the overgrowth of foliage.

Rick clenched his jaw and watched him, before turning toward T-Dog. "Grab the bolt cutter… let's see what we can find."

People by nature were hoarders. Who else would need storage units to store crap that did not get used. Rick and T-Dog opened unit after unit to find boxes of books, porcelain dolls, carpet remnants, Hefty bags stuffed with clothing, and even garbage. One unit, filled with antiques, while another had nothing but a broken king sized box spring. They did find blankets—some new and still within the packaging. They also found mattresses, two queens, a twin and a king which they moved to the empty unit at the end. The 12 by 38 foot space accommodated them perfectly, providing space enough between for comfort.

Glenn and Maggie claimed the queen bed at the end. Maggie, feeling the full effects of the flu, drank the bottle of water her father provided her, then covered herself in blankets, curled into the fetal position and went quickly to sleep. Beth dozed in the bed next to them, covered in a blanket with golden retrievers embroidered on it. The blankets, and even the clothing, smelled old, items that had been stored for too long. Carol had managed to find a bag of athletic socks, as well as a heavy poncho. She had opened a few bags of clothing, and pulled some heavy shirts, large enough for the men, as well as some college focused sweatshirts, tees, and a bag of mismatched shoes.

It was exciting enough to be dry, much less have an opportunity to sleep. Rick sat next to Hershel on the white plastic camping chairs he had found, while T-Dog watched and listened for threats near the opening. Carl and Lori dozed on the center mattress with Beth. It was the first time in as many weeks that they were not sleeping in the confines of the car or truck. Despite the fact that space was still tight, it allowed them an opportunity to stretch.

Carol stood, having folded the last sweater and placed it in the canvas duffle bag that would be easy to grab should the need arise. She slipped into a flannel jacket, crossed her arms over her chest and looked toward the fence line. With her brow furrowed with worry, she waited.

"He'll be back," T-dog said, shifting his weight to his right foot. He looked toward the wooded acres, past the fence and toward the unattended farmland in the distance. He wrapped his jacket tighter around his shoulders. "He could've waited—least 'til it stopped rainin'."

"What if it doesn't stop?" Carol sighed, and rubbed her arms as the cold continued to nip. She chewed the inside of her right cheek, shrugged, and nodded before stepping back and taking a seat on mattress near the roll up gate. She wrapped herself in a quilt made from Nascar tee-shirts, and continued to watch for Daryl's return.

It was different this time. They could only hear the rain hitting the metal roofs, the constant pattering as the day grew long, and the swaying of branches as the wind blew. They did not hear engines, walkers, gunshots, or panicked screams. They could hardly hear themselves think as the rain became more and more mesmerizing.

Rick stood and looked toward the fence, turned toward T-dog who shrugged. Sometimes it was the unspoken words that echoed the most. Rick nodded, worried his bottom lip, and returned his gaze toward the valley.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Daryl had hunted all his life, and not just for game. He had learned as a boy that he could not depend on his father who spent his days drinking and battling demons Daryl did not understand. Nor could he depend on his mother, who like his father, grew frustrated with the life she had chosen, and instead found her comfort spending most days in bed, smoking, drinking and ignoring the sons she bore, and the family she left behind. Though Merle had tried to be there, he too avoided home as much as he could. Home was not what Daryl thought about. He could not spend his time thinking about the things he had missed, what he had lost, or what he never knew. Instead, he ignored it, pretended it was not there, and challenged those who challenged him to think about it.

The less he acknowledged, the further away he could keep those closest to him. It was not an accomplishment, just an imbedded survival instinct that had been fine-tuned over years of practice, fear and mistrust. It had become more habitual than anything, and it provided him a means of escape. What he could acknowledge were the skills he had learned while spending time in the woods behind his home growing up. There had been rare occasions that Merle had been there to teach him, and a few times his father had not been in the throes of an alcoholic rage, he too would help him hunt and learn to survive.

Now, however, he was finding himself drawn to the group because they did not look at him in judgement—at least—not anymore. Instead, they looked at him for help and because they trusted him. They treated him as an equal. Moreover, they treated him as a friend.

While the rain continued its downpour, Daryl made his way to the creek that ran a mile behind the storage units and far enough out of town to be isolated: A good hunting location. The small creek provided water and the foliage and trees cover for animals. The creek continued its fast pace as the rain continued to fall. Daryl walked forward, slipping on occasion as the ground beneath his feet became unsteady. He paused a moment catching sight of a building obscured by the wilderness surrounding it.

He listened to the rainfall, pelts hitting the leaves, branches, and the ground. And he listened to the wind as it brushed against the branches. The sun was on its downward descent casting elongated shadows along the path. The cabin was small, carefully hidden from view, away from the creek, and several miles from the main road. A driveway near the back had been overwrought with a downed tree, unmaintained grasses and weeds, as well as branches. A window was broken near the front door, not caused from intruders, but a willow branch that had snapped during a windstorm: Evidence lay on the deck beneath it.

Carefully, Daryl moved forward, weapon raised and steady on his feet. Unwilling to take chances and understanding how his presence might be interpreted, he carefully crept his way toward the cabin. He glanced through a side window, and looked for the undisturbed dust on the floor near the door. He lowered his bow, took a deep breath and walked to the front. He found the door locked, but he knocked the remaining glass from the window next to it, reached inside and unlocked the door.

The hunter's cabin had been cleaned and prepped for the next hunting season, only the season never arrived. Blankets remained folded, covered in a layer of dust, and rested on a single cot near the back of the building. An old-fashioned lantern rested on the table. Daryl moved to the cupboards, finding a few tin dishes stacked carefully and in order of size. He grabbed the three cans of chili and shoved them into his backpack and reached for the sealed glass jar of peanut butter.

The window above the sink overlooked what had been a garden, and provided a view of the creek bed. The cabinets were old; the countertop made from plywood, and the furniture was mismatched and easily replaceable. A map of the county hung on the wall that led to the back. Certain areas had been highlighted, and Daryl noted the dates and animals that had been seen and where. He spotted a plastic tub tucked in the corner next to the bed. He opened it and found a flashlight with extra packs of batteries, a homemade emergency kit complete with ace bandages and protein bars, he also found matches and a stack of old newspapers. He shoved what he could into his backpack and then replaced the batteries of the flashlight. He opened a protein bar and ate it while taking one last look around the room.

He paused a moment when he heard the familiar sounds of rustling outside. He quickly swung his crossbow to defend himself from the unknown and moved slowly toward the front door, nerves on edge, awareness heightened, and for a moment, the sound of his heart beating was louder than the rain hitting the metal roof.

Five turkeys moved swiftly through the bushes, picking at grubs, grass, and at nuts from the acorn tree. Their awkward movements were heightened by the rain as they made their way across the overgrown yard and unattended garden. The Tom stood strong amongst his hens. His dark tail feathers tipped in white, fanned and spread wide across his hindquarters. A proud display of fortitude. He marched, proudly raised his feet, his wattle moved with the motion of his actions.

Daryl positioned his bow and steadied it as the turkeys continued their feast, unaware of his presence. When he released the bolt, it held true and struck the Tom in his chest. The big bird went down, feathers floated despite the rain, and the hens quickly fled the scene. Their cries ignited a litany of warnings from birds, squirrels, and marmots.

A roll of thunder echoed, and Daryl shouldered his crossbow then stepped off the porch to grab his kill. It would take him a while to get back. With the sun setting, he grabbed the bird by its feet and legs, all 16 pounds of it, and tossed it over his shoulder before starting his journey back. It would be enough to feed them, at least for tonight.

Daryl felt his stomach grumble, his chest tighten, his muscles ache, and the deep-set chill he had been trying to ignore hit full force. He had abandoned his rain slicker when he caught it on a branch after he fell when the ground gave way beneath his feet. Georgia was not known for its cold autumns, but it felt cold tonight as the winds continued and the sun disappeared behind the horizon.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Rick turned on the flashlight as the clouds covered the moon once again. He stood beside the suburban, waiting for Daryl, and protecting his family from threats. Carl had woken from a long nap and read the comic books T-dog had found. Using the small flashlight Rick had found him, he sat next to his mother, wrapped comfortably in blankets and eagerly turned the pages. Lori had fallen asleep and rested next to Beth who continued to doze.

T-dog had changed out of his shirt in exchange for a plaid thermal work shirt that Carol provided. He looked toward Hershel who had fallen asleep on one of the folding chairs, then left the confines of the unit and stepped next to Rick.

The rain had let up, and now just sprinkled, but left enough of the dampness to make it uncomfortable.

"See anything?" T-dog asked, standing just beneath the awning. He blew into his hands to warm them, before shoving them deep into his pockets.

Rick shook his head and continued his watch toward the gate. "If he ain't back by morning we'll head out and look." He clenched his jaw and worried his brow. "He shouldn't have gone out alone."

T-dog nodded, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Daryl's tough—hate to admit it—but he's a hell-of-a lot tougher than I thought when we first met." He chuckled and took in a deep breath of fresh air. "Thought he was some red-neck-racist, with a hard-on for crossbows and beer."

Rick chuckled.

T-dog sighed and watched the clouds cover and then slowly move past the quarter moon. He paused a moment, pushed himself away from the support beam of the storage unit and focused toward the fence line.

"See somethin'?" Rick asked, stepping out into the rain and toward the fence.

T-dog nodded. "Thought I saw a light in the distance."

Rick pulled his weapon from its holster. "Get everyone up and ready to move." He jogged toward the fence and slipped between the chainlink. He maneuvered himself down the slight slope, slipping on the mud. He balanced himself and continued onward. He could see a light, but not consistently, just a flash here and there as he followed a narrow path toward the creek. He listened, and despite the echo of his pulse racing through his veins and the sound of the wind rustling the branches of the trees, he could not hear the sounds of footprints, or the echo of voices.

Rick paused, waited, and then positioned himself next to a tree. The light never reappeared, but the light of the moon provided enough to see by. Its brightness reflected off the glimmering puddles of water.

Clouds covered the brightness of the moon once more, and Rick stayed in position, listening, waiting, unsure of what he might find. The light never returned, and for a moment he thought about running back to the storage units, loading up his family and driving away... just in case.

"Ya sound like a dog in heat—heavy breathin' and shit," Daryl said, walking forward and flashing his light near the base of the tree where Rick stood.

Rick closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I wasn't sure... didn't think you had a flashlight— thought it might be trouble."

Daryl nodded. He swung the turkey from his shoulder and handed it to Rick, along with two rabbits he had killed on his way back. He was tired—exhausted, soaking wet, cold, and in need of a good meal. He stepped forward and started back toward their temporary shelter. Rick walked behind him, slipping on occasion as the mud gave way beneath his feet.

A flash of lightening zigzagged across the sky, and the boom of thunder echoed before the winds once again picked up. Georgia's autumn weather was becoming more of a challenge as the days grew short, weather turned cold, and the rain became incessant.

Daryl could see a candle burning in the distance as well as the small head of a flashlight bobble in one location. He stepped right, slipped and fell to his left. Rick tried to grab him, but fell himself. Mud like wet dough, clung to their clothes, hands and shoes, making their attempts to get upright difficult.

Daryl sighed, and grunted something unintelligible while getting to his knees. He looked up to see Rick standing before him with a hand reached out. Daryl grasped it, grunted and finally stood. He had to pause a moment, placing both hands on his thighs above his knees as he gathered his strength. "Son of a bitch," he sighed, feeling the weight of exhaustion and cold that invaded his muscles and bones.

"We're almost there," Rick said, grabbing the turkey, rabbits and then grabbing Daryl by his upper left arm.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

T-dog had everyone up and ready to go. Nerves were on edge, while eight sets of eyes waited for Rick's return. The doors to the vehicles had been opened, engines started, and the supplies worth keeping loaded.

"It's them," T-dog said with a sigh. He looked toward Hershel who nodded, curled his lips into a smile, wrapped his right arm around Beth's shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

Maggie sighed, closed her eyes, and leaned onto Glenn's shoulder in relief. She watched T-dog brave the weather and jog to join Rick and Daryl as they maneuvered their way through the break in the chainlink, before she returned to her position on the bed. Glenn followed. The others could handle it.

"Looks like that BBQ you found earlier will come in handy," Hershel said with a chuckle, looking toward Carol who smiled. He could see the outlines of the carcasses in the distance as Rick adjusted his hold.

Daryl shrugged out of Rick's grip as he slipped through the fence. Daryl nodded as T-dog jogged toward them. He stopped, slapped Daryl's shoulder in a friendly gesture, and took the fresh kills from Rick.

"Damn, Dixon," T-dog said, turning to walk in pace with them. He held up the bounty for all to see, and listened as his stomach grumbled as a result. "I can smell this cookin' already!"

Daryl swung his backpack toward T-dog, slapping him on his chest before he caught it. "Found some canned food in an ol' cabin couple miles back."

T-dog smiled and shook his head in disbelief. He grasped the backpack and jogged back toward the others.

Daryl paused, bent at his waist, placed his hands above his knees, and allowed himself to breathe. He was done. His knees and hips ached, the cold had invaded his bones, tightness had settled into the muscles of his neck and back and caused his head to pound, and his chest tightened as he breathed. His muscles shook and for a moment, his vision blurred. He winced feeling sharp pains shoot up his arms.

Rick grasped Daryl's shoulder. "You all right?"

Daryl nodded. "Jus' need a minute." He coughed, spit, and pushed himself upright. Using the back of his right wrist, he wiped his brow.

"Come on," Rick said, watching him deteriorate, "Carol found some clothes, we need to get you dry, warmed up, and everyone fed." He grasped Daryl's shoulder and pulled him forward.

Daryl nodded and followed.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Lori and Carol worked to clean the rabbits and the turkey while Carl organized feathers—keeping those that looked like the ones Daryl had used on occasion. Daryl watched T-dog retrieve the BBQ and use the briquettes that had been stored within its confines and slowly start the fire. The briquettes were old, but with some encouragement, they ignited. T-dog moved in front of the BBQ like a slow dancer with a new partner. He clenched his jaw, and worked the coals carefully and lovingly. If music had been playing in the background, he would have looked at home, like a father celebrating his son's winning game, or a buddy hanging with friends while cooking steaks over a grill while his buddies drank beer and swapped stories.

Daryl had changed into the dry clothing Carol had set aside for him. Jeans a size too large and a black tee shirt that advertised his association with stupid. She had tossed the poncho at him when he refused the warmth of a long black wool coat. Despite being uncomfortably cold, and exhausted, he had parked himself on the mattress near the opening, wrapped himself in a thick cotton blanket and leaned back with his head and shoulders against the cold metal. If felt good to be still, not moving, and not soaking wet. The tightness of chest increased, and his nerves continued to burn, muscles shook, and pain continued to shoot through his head.

Daryl closed his eyes and listened to Hershel as he instructed T-dog on the finer points of maximizing the flavor of a minimalist BBQ. Daryl did not have the energy to argue—shit, he would eat it raw. Carl had quickly lost interest in the feathers and moved back toward his comic books and explained to Beth the significance of _Ant-man_. Daryl could hear Glenn, between bouts of coughing, both confirm and argue certain aspects of Carl's interpretations of the character. Beth—ever patient—just listened. Maggie slept peacefully next to Glenn, covered in blankets, and hidden from view, rising only on occasion to drink the fluids her father ordered her to.

Rick continued to stand guard, listening for the familiarity of walkers and watching for predators. He too had changed into warmer clothing, and the new black jacket looked unfamiliar on him. On occasion, he would glance from Hershel to T-dog, shake his head and then scan the area with his right hand on the handle of his gun. Always on guard. Always watching.

The sound of flesh hitting the grill caused Beth, Glenn and Carol to turn toward the BBQ. T-dog seasoned the meat with the spices Lori had found in the camper, covered it, and stood back. Hershel slapped him on the shoulder and encouraged him to be patient.

Carol wrapped the feathers Carl had separated in paper and left them on the floor next to where Daryl rested. She smiled encouragingly toward Beth as she continued to appease Carl with his fascination. Glenn pushed himself against the back wall and watched with amusement the activities around him. He looked better. His cheeks no longer flushed with fever. He was still wrapped in blankets; his hair flattened and spiked, evidence of restless days and nights.

Glenn patted the side of his nose with his index finger and smiled toward Carol. "Smells good." He inhaled, closed his eyes and held his breath, thankful for the freshness of the air as well as the scent of food cooking.

Carol chuckled: "Yeah, it does." She grabbed Daryl's backpack, took a seat on the end of the mattress, and pulled the canned chili and peanut butter from the confines to add to their meager pile of resources. She separated the emergency first aid kit and was surprised to find the paperback copy of _The Case of the Missing Man_ shoved between the folds of his leather jacket, a wife beater that needed to be tossed, and his last flannel shirt. She flipped through the pages and paused when she spotted the Cherokee Rose flattened between the pages, perfectly dried and brittle to the touch.

"You alright?" Lori asked, taking a seat next to her. Lori rested her elbows on her knees, glanced from Daryl, to her husband and then back to Carol.

Carol nodded. "Yeah," she closed the book and returned it within the confines of the backpack. She glanced toward Daryl who still sat upright, head back with his eyes closed. If it had not been for the occasional grimace, she would have assumed he was asleep. He looked pale, dark moons shadowed his eyes, and despite his usual need to be on the move—he looked unnaturally still.

The sky lit up once again. The serpentine strike moved from left to right, and for a moment, it was daylight again. The thunderous roar that followed caused T-dog and Hershel to step away from the BBQ and toward the entrance of the unit. The deep sound echoed again as the thunder rolled and brought with it another bout of heavy rain.

T-dog pushed the BBQ as far in from the weather as he could. Storing it just under the meager awning. The smell of the meat slowly cooking wafted inside the confines.

"When will it be ready?" Carl asked, squaring the corners of his comic books, while remaining cross-legged next to Beth on the center mattress.

Lori looked toward Hershel who lifted the lid of the BBQ and took a deep breath. "Not long," he said, and lowered the lid, then carefully positioned himself on the edge of the mattress between Carol and next to Daryl. Hershel straightened his left leg, rested his left hand on his knee and rubbed the muscle above it.

Rick turned from his position between the unit and the suburban. With his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, he leaned against the wall looking in. He nodded toward Glenn, who nodded back, and looked at those around him.

It was the first time in as many weeks that they had an opportunity to stop, to pull themselves together and rest. Despite the weather, the cold, and even the incessant rain, Rick looked and felt less on edge. He continued his due diligence and watched for threats, but the weather had slowed—not just them down—but everyone and everything else as well. While the lightening provided light to the world outside the storage units and fences, the flashlights and candles worked well within the confines. He watched Lori stand, grab two cans of corn from the box of goods, open them, and place them on the hood of the grill to heat.

"We'll need more than just protein," Lori said, keeping her distance, but taking care of her family.

Rick nodded, and kept quiet. He took a deep breath, watched Glenn lean over and kiss Maggie's cheek. Beth, using found candles to see by, grabbed one of the comic books and slowly flipped through the pages while Carl looked over her shoulder and explained what was happening. It was not much, but it was all Rick had—and for a moment—he felt it was enough. It would not last. It never did. And he wondered if it ever would, but for now, it was good enough to know they had beds to sleep in and food to fill their stomachs. He scratched the stubble on his chin and turned as the sky lit up with veins of white light. The thunder followed, and this time shook the building.

Daryl leaned forward from the wall, rested his elbows on his knees, and rubbed at his temples with the heels of his hands as the pain grew more intense. His blanket pooled at his hips. He never heard Hershel's call to him, or water gush as the gutters overflowed, or the sounds of frantic movements as T-dog and Rick stepped aside as the gutter two units down cracked and then snapped, spilling rain and mud toward the ground.

"Daryl," Hershel said again. He turned, and pushed himself to his feet. "Son, you doin' alright?"

"Daryl," Rick said, wiping damp hands on his pant legs and stepped forward, concerned with the lack of response. "Daryl!" His voice echoed and caught the attention of everyone but Daryl.

Hershel reached for Daryl's right shoulder and was surprised with the speed in which his hand was slapped away. Daryl slammed the left side of his head against the metal frame of the structure in an effort to move from the touch. "Son-of-a-bitch," he said, and pressed his palm to his temple. He leaned forward and breathed through the pain.

"Daryl," Rick said, resting on his haunches as he cautiously reached for Daryl's forearm.

"Warn me next time," Daryl snapped. With his brow furrowed and jaw clenched he looked up and met Rick's eyes, but eyed the placement of Rick's hand.

"Thought we did," Rick said, and pushed the blankets further inside the unit. "You need to move—rain's comin' down harder and the gutters are startin' to fail."

Daryl nodded and made a motion to stand. His head spun, eyes blurred, and he unsteadily used the wall at his back as support, and with Rick's help, got to his feet. He leaned forward and again braced his hands above his knees. He felt a hand at his left shoulder and wanted to push it away, but he lacked the energy.

"Daryl?" Hershel leaned over and placed his right hand on he left side of Daryl's back.

"Shit, jus' give me a minute," Daryl muttered, and waited for the blankets at his feet to stop spinning. "Damn," he sighed, wishing the echo of voices in his head would shut-up, and the smell of cooking flesh to stop as the pain in his head intensified. It hurt to breathe, his muscles cramped, and he could feel his heart racing through his veins.

"He alright?" Lori asked. She moved out of the way, as Rick stepped onto the mattress and grabbed Daryl under his right arm to steady him.

Daryl remained hunched with his hands above his knees. He tried taking deep breaths, but his lungs would not cooperate. He could feel his muscles failing as the trembling increased, the world continued to spin, and he no longer heard the voices, the rain, or thunder around him, just the pounding of his heart and racing of blood through his veins. "Shit," he whispered and then choked back a cough.

"He got this flu that's going around?" Rick mimicked Hershel's posture and looked to him for answers. Rick's strengthened his grip on Daryl's arm as he felt muscles tighten and Daryl's balance waver. Rick kept him steady as he swayed slightly on his feet.

Daryl trembled as he slowly pushed himself into an upright position. He clenched his jaw, closed his eyes tightly, and tried to take a deep breath. He placed his left hand on the wall behind him to steady himself.

Hershel pressed his right hand to the back of Daryl's neck and then slipped his hand beneath Daryl's shirt at his back. "He's chilled to the bone."

"Fuck, ol' man—watch where you put your paws," Daryl snapped, and pushed Hershel's hand away. "I'm fine." He pinched the bridge of his nose. The noise from the rain was overwhelming, and the echo of thunder continued to pound at his temples. Even the whispers of those around him grated his nerves, and for a moment he just wanted everything to stop. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbled, and he rubbed his brow with his palm.

Hershel sighed and shook his head. "You're not fine," he placed his hand on Daryl's back again. "You're hypothermic, exhausted, dehydrated." He gripped Daryl's wrist, "You're pulse is too fast because your heart is working overtime tryin' to keep you on your feet, and my guess is you're dizzy—probably been dizzy for a while." He motioned for Rick to help guide Daryl toward the other side of the unit so they could push the mattress further into the unit as the steady stream of rain continued to widen.

Rick adjusted his hold on Daryl's right arm and gently pushed him forward while Hershel remained on Daryl's left. He felt the push, but stopped the motion when the room suddenly tipped. Daryl's knees weakened and he frantically reached for Rick's arm and only managed to grasp the fabric of Rick's jacket before his knees buckled, his vision blurred, and like an accordion he folded. Hershel grabbed Daryl's left arm, while Rick quickly adjusted his hold and slipped his arms beneath Daryl's and around his chest to keep him from hitting the pavement.

T-dog moved quickly and took Hershel's position, and then slipped his hands beneath Daryl's knees. "Where do you want him?"

"Put him on the twin," Hershel said, standing back as Carol grabbed blankets and the extra sleeping bag.

Daryl struggled weakly against them, but Rick tightened his hold, and then he and T-dog lifted and moved Daryl to the twin bed adjacent to the bed Lori, Carl and Beth had claimed.

"He alright?" Glenn said, and pushed the blankets aside to get up and help.

"You stay put," Hershel snapped, "Carol, grab my kit." He watched T-dog and Rick get Daryl positioned and then move off to the side.

Daryl was unconscious by the time they got him to the bed. He looked dead, lying still, chest barely moving. Hershel stepped forward, and carefully maneuvered himself between the mattresses, squatted, and slowly lowered himself to his knees on the pavement. Feeling his joints ache, he winced when his right knee protested, but ignored the pain and pressed his fingers to Daryl's neck and nodded toward Carol who opened the small leather satchel filled with found medical supplies.

"Rick," Hershel said, "slip his shoes off and get those blankets over the top of him—we need to get his temperature up." Hershel grabbed the stethoscope, slipped the ear tubes into his ears and opened up Daryl's shirt to listen carefully to his heart and lungs. Carol stood behind him, waiting and learning, with her arms crossed over her chest. T-dog had stepped back, allowing them the room they needed. Rick pulled Daryl's shoes off and noted the makeshift repairs to the trackers. He then unfolded the blankets and tossed them over Daryl while Hershel continued to work. Rick stood, kept his hands on his hips, and his palm near the handle of his weapon.

Just in case.

Rick could feel his own heart racing, pulse pounding, and he felt his throat tighten around the unforgiving unknown. He watched as Lori took a seat next to her son; wrap her arms around his shoulders and wait. All eyes were glued to Hershel's back as they waited for an update.

"He going to be okay?" Carl asked, hands fisted within the fabric of his blanket, comics forgotten.

Lori kissed his head. "Of course he is." She tightened her hold around him and waited.

Hershel took a deep breath, slipped the head of the stethoscope to Daryl's left side and then his right. Hershel could hear the quick pace of Daryl's heart, and the shallow ragged breaths that accompanied pneumonia. Hershel looked toward Carol while removing the stethoscope. "Slip a pillow under his knees—we need to get his feet elevated." He took a deep breath, and grabbed the blood pressure cuff from the bag.

Carol knelt and worked a pillow beneath Daryl's legs and then tucked the blanket around his legs and hips and waited for Hershel to finish taking Daryl's blood pressure.

It was quiet in the space, and for a moment, even the sounds of the rain disappeared. Hershel pumped the black balloon while the cuff on Daryl's arm tightened. Rick squatted and rested on his haunches, elbows on his thighs, and he looked at Hershel. The lines on his face deepened, and for a moment, he held his breath as he slowly released the pressure valve. The sound of air escaping the cuff echoed and Hershel looked up and met Rick's eyes.

"Blood pressure's 80 over 50... way too low," Hershel clenched his jaw, frowned, and then rubbed his forehead with the heel of his right hand. "We need to get his body temperature up—he needs fluids and electrolytes ..." he took a deep breath and closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples.

"What about body heat?" T-dog said, which earned him chuckles from Glenn and Beth, "I'm serious," he shrugged.

Hershel did not laugh and ignored the subtle innuendos around it. He turned a terse eyes toward his daughter and then toward Glenn, "This isn't the time, nor is it appropriate."

"—It's just," Glenn sighed apologetically, "Daryl isn't exactly the friendly type—"

Hershel frowned with a shake of his head: "Maybe you should consider why."

Glenn clenched his jaw, nodded in acceptance and humbly stood down.

Hershel returned his gaze toward T-dog. "Toss some of the hot coals into a pan—we'll wrap it in towels and use it," he sighed, and looked toward Rick and received a nod of acknowledgement. "I noticed some rocks near the gate out front, large enough that we could warm them in the BBQ—once they're warmed, we'll wrap them in a towel and exchange them. It'll supply enough heat to get him warm and we won't risk movin' him too much.

"He'll need to be kept on his back until his blood pressure rises—we risk organ damage if we try and move him." Hershel worried his brow and clenched at his temples. He inhaled deeply and glanced toward Rick. "I'm surprised he didn't go down earlier—"

"—This is Daryl," Carol said, raising her eyebrow, "he crawled out of a ravine with a hole in his side—"

"I'll go find the rocks," T-dog said. Before anyone could stop him, he turned and was jogging toward the entry gate.

Hershel slipped his hand beneath Daryl's neck and adjusted his position. Hershel sighed and looked toward Rick and then pulled the blankets toward Daryl's chest. "He's having a difficult time breathing." He shifted to release the tension of his thighs and removed the jacket he was wearing, tucked it around Daryl, and then tucked the blankets around him.

"Hershel?" Rick said, with a frown. He chewed his bottom lip and waited.

Hershel shrugged and stood slowly as he worked the stiffness out of his muscles. Shaking his head he scratched the back of his neck. "I should have noticed," he muttered and looked toward his daughters and then back to Rick. "He's unconscious, physically exhausted, dehydrated, hypothermic… it's been cold and wet enough that he's probably acclimated somewhat to the temperature, but he was moving the whole time, and now that he's stopped, his body is just tryin' to function."

"He's goin' to be okay though?" Rick frowned, and glanced to those around him and then back to Hershel.

"We'll need to keep an eye on him—get his body temperature up, and as soon as he's conscious we'll need to get some fluids into him—I don't remember the last time I saw him eat anything," he rubbed the back of his neck, "I'm surprised it took as long as it has for him to go down." He looked at Rick, clenched his jaw, and continued, "His pulse is way too fast, and I think his heart is the only thing keepin' him going—my guess is that's why he went down so quickly," he placed his hands on his hips and sighed, "When he stood, his blood pressure bottomed out.

"He's probably been fighting hypothermia for days—riding that damn bike in the rain, huntin'—soaking wet, and fightin' this flu that's been makin' headway through our group."

Rick nodded, flexed his masseter muscles and accepted Hershel's explanation. He rubbed his face and took a deep breath. "Can we move him? If we have to?"

Hershel pursed his lips. "We don't have much of a choice—but if we can stay here a couple days, it'll give him some time to recover." He looked at Rick with a frown. "You're hands are shaking."

Rick looked at his palms and then quickly replaced his hands on his hips.

T-dog returned and slipped the grapefruit sized rocks into the BBQ to warm. He then dug out a few of the hot coals and placed them into a small saucepan. He put the lid on it, wrapped it in a towel and handed it to Hershel who quickly placed it beneath the covers by Daryl's right flank.T-dog scratched the back of his neck and took a deep breath. "We should find a truck," he said, checking the status of the meat with a deep inhale as he lifted the lid. He shoved his hands into his pockets and then leaned against the gate frame and looked toward his family. He shrugged and looked from Rick to Glenn. "Could go lookin' for one, maybe search a few more of the storage units—see what's available—might be junk," he shrugged, "might not be."

T-dog licked his lips and sighed. "Figure I owe 'im at least that," he motioned with his chin toward Daryl. "Could get his bike in the back—least through winter. It'll give us a bit more room."

"We'll need some antibiotics—Daryl's got fluid in his lungs and I'm concerned about pneumonia," Hershel said. He watched T-dog grab the pie pans they had been using as plates and started dishing up the food. Hershel turned toward Rick: "You're goin' to end up like Daryl if you keep goin' at the rate you're goin'—and we can't have you both down—not now."

Rick chewed the top right side of his lip and looked at Daryl, and then at the rest of his family.

"He's right," Glenn said, coughing into his hand, "if you go down," he looked at those around him, "we all do."

T-dog dished Rick up a plate of food and handed it to him. "I'm worth more than a good joke now an' then." He moved back to the BBQ to dish up more. "I can make a run tomorrow—hell, I'll be the only fool out there if it's rainin' like this—probably come back with an ark."

"I'll go with you," Hershel shook his head and held his left hand up as voices of no's echoed. "You'll need someone to drive the truck back if—when—we find one… and," he sighed, "we can look for some medical supplies—I know where to look."

"No," Rick "we can wait—"

"—What if Daryl ends up with pneumonia? What if Maggie does?" Lori said, getting to her feet and maneuvering between Rick and T-dog. She grabbed the tongs from T-dog and started dishing food onto plates.

T-dog stepped back, shrugged and gave her the room she needed to work.

"Daryl is down, Rick— _Daryl_ _!_ —He's the only reason we're getting ready to eat something that hasn't been processed, canned, or wasn't expired months ago. Glenn is barely on his feet." She turned toward him, "You have been on the verge of going down for days—" she clenched the tongs in her hand, "you forget that I know what to look for," she pointed toward her chest, "I'm the one that's seen it happen... We can't go on like this." She clenched her jaw and pursed her lips before moving back toward the food. She handed Beth and Carl each a plate.

Lori paused a moment, lips pressed into a fine line, jaw still clenched. She knew she would be the last one Rick would listen to—despite that—she needed to say something. She watched him shift from his left to right foot, a sign he was growing impatient. However, this time, he remained silent. "This is good enough for a couple of days, Rick. We can stay here, rest, and just… stop," she shrugged, relaxed her features, and sighed, "… for a little while."

Rick clenched his jaw, and handed Hershel his untouched plate. "I'm going to walk the perimeter."

"Rick!" Lori said when he turned and walked toward the front gate. She handed T-dog the tongs and then followed Rick, ignoring the rain and the weather. "Don't blame them," she pointed back toward the others, "for what I've done." She brushed wet hair out of her eyes and the crossed her arms over her chest to ward off the chill. "We… you, need time to rest, Rick," she rubbed her lips and took a deep breath, "we can't lose you—not when we're all looking for someone to be strong… and that someone has always been you."

Rick stopped. As much as he wanted to turn and see the woman he had fallen in love with, as much as he wanted to trust the words she spoke, and as much as he wanted everything to be like it was… it never would be. When he looked at her, and when she spoke, all he saw was her with Shane and her devotion to him. Rick did not know when it ended—or if it had—or if his anger was all that he had left that belonged to them both. Lori and Shane's relationship had been more than a fling—much more—and his stomach turned when he thought about it. "Get back to the shelter, Lori," he said, and continued to walk toward the fence to monitor the perimeter.

"Rick!" She shook her head, and then placed her hands on her hips. She turned and slowly walked back to the unit, head down, and shoulders slumped in defeat.

Carol grasped Lori's right arm as she walked passed and handed her a dry shirt.

"He doesn't see it," Lori shrugged. "He can't see what he's doing... he's always been that way... driven, tenacious, one-track-mind," she took a deep breath, "sometimes… he just doesn't know when to stop," she unfolded the shirt, shook out the wrinkles and dust. "He'll kill himself first." She stepped to the side, hidden from view and changed before stepping back.

"He feels like he's responsible," Hershel said, taking a deep breath and taking a seat on the yard chair. With a plate of food on his lap, he watched Maggie pick at her meal and he kept an eye on Daryl who remained motionless. "He's not, though," he looked at Lori, "we have to be responsible for each other."

Their lives were open books now. Privacy non-existent, and though they tried to give each other the space they needed in order to gain personal resolutions—sometimes—it just wasn't possible. Though Lori and Rick had argued, and they had tried to keep it from them, the others inadvertently heard—it was just a part of the dysfunctional system they now lived—and for better or worse, they learned to live with it.

"This is the worse it's ever been… and it's getting worse," Lori said, sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to the others. "And I don't blame him." She tried to feign a smile, but failed as her eyes watered. She took a bite of turkey and her mouth watered, stomach growled, and for a moment, everything amplified.

"He's a complex man dealing with a multitude of issues—none of which he can control." Hershel took a deep breath, "You and I know he's not responsible for what is happening, but I assume he feels like he is," Hershel said, and looked toward Carl who ate too fast but enjoyed every morsel, "he—like the rest of us—has to process everything that's happened—our losses—challenges, and the unknown that lies ahead." He took a deep breath and enjoyed the corn with a bite of turkey. "Everything's gone, Lori... the farm—Patricia—Andrea, all we have to hold onto right now is each other—give him some time to process… to reconcile everything he _almost_ lost.

"You have a child on the way," Hershel looked at her, "and you need to keep your strength up, you can't afford to get sick, and you can't take care of things that are out of your control."

Lori pursed her lips and nodded. "What're we going to do?" She looked at Hershel, swallowed, and fought back the tears. She rolled her eyes and shrugged. She knew he was right, but it did not make it any easier.

Hershel stood, leaned forward and grasped her shoulder. "We're goin' to survive, and we're goin' to continue to hope that there is a place for us out there, and we have to trust enough in each other to make that happen." He smiled and set his empty plate on a stack of boxes next to the entry. He started to move passed her, but stopped, "When you're done, you should get some rest. Can't have you gettin' sick too." Hershel grabbed a spare blanket, slipped it across his shoulders and moved to check on Daryl.

Lori worried her top lip and forced an unconvincing smile, with red-rimmed eyes she looked up as T-dog handed her a napkin from the pile of supplies.

T-dog looked around the crowded room and shrugged. "This is it," he took a deep breath and sighed "figure if we do what Hershel says… watch each other's backs," he grabbed another tin plate, "we can make it." He licked his lower lip and took a seat in the chair Hershel had vacated.

Lori took the napkin and nodded. "Life should be more than _just_ making it… Shouldn't it?" She looked up at him.

He did not have a response. Not this time.

Carol stood from her position next to Hershel, took the now empty plates from Maggie, Glenn, Beth and Carl and placed them on the box with Hershel's. "T," she said, dishing him a plate of food, "you should eat." She handed him the plate, turned, and looked toward Lori. "Men are idiots," she said, crossing her arms over her chest while Lori finished her food. Carol raised her eyebrows, looked at T-dog, and shrugged. "No offense."

T-dog pursed his lips and nodded. Before the illness hit, he had three sisters and understood the silent subtle hints of 'now is not a good time for you to talk'. Instead, he focused on his plate of food and enjoyed the flavor of freshly cooked meat, and expired canned corn.

Lori nodded: "Doesn't make it any easier."

"It's not supposed to," Carol said, and learned over to gently pat Lori's leg, "but it does put things into perspective." She pointed toward Daryl. "That one there—who's already pushed himself to death... idiot." She looked toward T-dog who continued to eat, despite not taking the time to slip into dry clothes, "you're not off the hook either—"

"What'd I do?" T-dog held his fork mid-flight to his mouth, eyebrows raised, seeking permission to finish.

Carol raised her eyebrows, and provided him time to think about it. Subtly she looked down, cocked her head and smiled when T-dog sighed, took a deep breath, and nodded.

"Damn," T-dog finished his bite, "I'm eatin' first though."

Hershel carefully squatted next to the mattress where Daryl rested and then allowed himself to sit back on the edge, staying off the floor and relieving the tension in his knees. He leaned forward and pressed the palm of his left hand to Daryl's forehead, and then reached into the medical bag next to the bed for his stethoscope.

"How is he?" Glenn asked, shifting just enough to peer at Maggie who had retaken her sleeping position on the edge of the bed.

Hershel shook his head, pulled the covers from Daryl's chest, and then slipped the ear tubes back into his ears and listened. Hershel sighed, moved the stethoscope around his neck and turned to look at T-dog. "Put those hot rocks into some fabric for me."

"Everything okay?" Lori said, turning from her position on the mattress, her food forgotten. She looked toward Hershel and then toward T-dog who was working to get the rocks ready.

Hershel slipped his hand beneath Daryl's neck and adjusted the pillow beneath. "His body temperature is still too low," he said, readjusting the blankets around him. Hershel clenched his jaw, rested his right elbow on his knee and scratched at his chin. "Pulse is still too fast," he looked toward Carol and Lori. "If I had a sedative I'd take a chance and give him one," He shook his head and took a deep breath. He carefully took one of the wrapped rocks from T-dog and slipped it under the covers, placing it between Daryl's arm and chest. He did the same with the other and shifted the blankets around Daryl.

"What if we move him to the car? It would get him inside and we can turn the heater on—" T-dog paused when Hershel shook his head.

Hershel rubbed his face and leaned back, feeling the comfort of the mattress at his backside, "Moving him now could kill him and I don't want to risk it—not yet anyway." Impatiently, he pressed a cupped hand to Daryl's left cheek face and then slipped his fingers to his pulse.

Hershel could hear the rain at his back. He could hear the infrequent coughs coming from Beth and Glenn, and now Maggie was fighting the worst of it: fever, joint pain, headaches, and exhaustion. Sleep was all they had for a cure. But here they were, fighting the elements, the cold, the wet, the wind, and the dampness that hindered their very being. Hershel ran his hand over his face and cupped his chin while resting his elbow on his knee.

Their plan of action had to change. Desperation could push men and women to the brink. And here they were, at the brink, just trying to survive with little supplies and minimal strength to carry-on. Life had to be more than just surviving. Hershel thought back to the farm, and he thought about what he had done to risk the lives of those around him, all because of his failure to understand the severity of the situation. He turned toward Maggie, and he watched Glenn carefully wipe the strands of hair from her face as she continued to rest. Hershel thought about Glenn and Beth and when the illness started and how they should have stopped and allowed them an opportunity to heal… but they did not. Instead, they continued to run, and the harder they ran the sicker they got.

Then there was the ongoing fight between Lori and Rick, and their son, caught in the middle, while the rest could only look on and wait. So much had changed, and so much had been lost. Hershel rubbed his chin, looked at his patient, and then looked out toward the unknown.

"How is he?"

It was Rick, now standing near the entrance, soaking wet, hands on his hips. He glanced toward Lori who moved back beside Carl on the mattress. She wrapped herself in the blanket and rubbed Carl's shoulder while he watched the events around him.

The tension in the room was thick, despite the open gate and winds. They were human beings, not cattle on the way to slaughter.

Hershel stood, and felt the anger and his frustration of a father fuel his words. "You get changed before you end up on your back—and eat what T-dog puts in front of you." He moved from his position next to Daryl after covering him and stepped forward. "T-dog and I are going out first thing to find a truck and some antibiotics, I'm guessing Daryl will be fighting pneumonia—and I'm not going to stand by and watch it kill him. My daughters are sick and need time to heal."

Hershel turned toward Lori: "I'll take first watch, and then T-dog, Carol, and then Lori," he looked at Rick, "When T and I get back tomorrow… we'll decide the best route to take, but in the meantime—Maggie and Daryl are our priorities." He rubbed his neck and looked toward the blackened sky.

"I think it would be best—"

"—No," Hershel said, "you don't get to _think_ right now. You can start giving orders when you've had some sleep and a belly full of food, but in the meantime I'm deciding what's best." He held his stance and could feel the eyes of the others on his back. "I'm tired too, Rick," he sighed, "but we can't keep killin' ourselves trying to find a new way to survive… we can't. I won't stand by and let it happen. What good is surviving if we're killin' each other in an effort to do it?

"I shouldn't have let it get this far…" Hershel looked toward Maggie and Beth with the eyes of a concerned father, "I should have stopped this when Beth got sick." He turned back to face Rick, "We're lucky Glenn is back on his feet." He rubbed his face. "We have to look at our situation differently—" He clenched his fist and pointed his finger toward the pavement. "There are no hospitals, no emergency crews—we can't keep pushin' ourselves to the point of collapse… not anymore—"

"—we don't have much of a choice, Hershel," Rick challenged, "We're doin' the best we can with what we've got." He adjusted his hands on his hips and clenched his jaw.

"You're supposed to be leadin' this group—part of being a leader is understanding what's happening to your people—and your strongest are down, Rick," Hershel looked down and shook his head and collected his breath. "Glenn is your best scavenger, Daryl's your best hunter and tracker, and Maggie would do whatever she needed to keep us safe… and you're on the verge of collapse." He turned and took a plate full of food from T-dog and handed it to Rick. "Until we get an ample supply of medications, and until you find a physician better capable than myself of seeing to the medical needs of _our family_ , and while we have a place to rest… I'm tellin' you, Rick, this is how it has to be…" he looked again at his daughter, still buried and sound asleep next to Glenn, "or we'll need to find some shovels." He pointed toward Daryl, "By tomorrow, _he_ might be that close—he pushed himself for us, that damn bike, and the belief that we're always," he held his hand up, thumb and finger just inches apart, "this close."

Rick clenched his jaw and looked around the room. It was not what he wanted, but he knew it is what they needed. He watched Carol move into position next to the bed where Daryl lay unconscious, unaware of his surroundings or his own condition. She placed her hand on his forehead, and tucked the blankets around his shoulders. Rick looked toward Maggie who had been so strong for so long that her energy had finally given out, and Hershel was right, it was only a matter of time before the rest of them folded. The human body was not built to run for as long as they had: Without food, ample rest, and without the necessities needed to carryon.

Rick rubbed his face and looked at the food on his plate. A hefty amount of fresh meat, seasoned with spices and a serving of corn—more than he'd had in a week, and because of those around him, because of Daryl's hunting skills and sheer determination, because of Carol and Lori's ingenuity in searching for supplies that they knew they needed. He looked toward Hershel, who despite following him and trusting him to do what he did best, now challenged him to protect those he had promised to.

It was the look on Carl's face that caused Rick to pause. The look of a son searching for strength and understanding. A son who looked and needed the strength of his father. Carl, who was too young to understand the consequences of their actions, but would suffer the result of them.

Rick nodded and looked toward T-dog and then Hershel. "Promise me you won't take any chances."

T-dog nodded, slapped Rick's shoulder and then took a seat on the bed by the opening. "I'll keep him in check—ol' man doesn't know when to quit." He finished his food and rested his plate on the box with the others. He reached for a blanket to wrap in and stopped suddenly when Carol looked his way. In resignation, he stood slowly, grabbed the short stack of dry clothes and moved to the adjacent unit to change.

Rick took a seat next to Hershel, humbled, he ate the food he had been given. It felt good and the taste was something he savored. "I want to find us a place… someplace safe… someplace where we can make a life.

"I never meant for this to happen—" Rick looked toward Hershel, exhaustion lined his features. "I just—"

Hershel chuckled and looked toward him. "I know, and so does everyone else." He shifted and listened as the whispers quieted, as his family grew comfortable and slowly slipped to sleep. "Why do you think we're followin' you?"

There was a hushed tone in the space with only echoes of the wind slapping the siding and the rain continuing its downpour. For a moment it was peaceful. Leaves, small twigs, and mud continued to collect and break apart the sporadic dams along the narrow streams that continued to flow passed the buildings and toward the fields out back.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Rick woke to the smell of chili cooking. It was dawn, and he found himself curled in blankets, on the right side of the queen bed next to the entrance. He could hear whispers, the sounds of papers shuffling, and the caws of crows in the distance. He rolled onto his back and rubbed his face, the blanket pulling tight around his torso. And, without warning, his body pulled tight into a long and much needed stretch. He took a deep breath and sighed. Hershel was right. They did need time to stop, to be still while their bodies regained what had been lost. Rick could feel this his blood flowing, and the renewed energy from a solid night's sleep.

"Morning," Carol said, handing him a cup of instant coffee. "I put sugar in it."

Rick pushed himself up, took the cup and leaned against the wall. He looked around the room and sighed. "How's Daryl and Maggie?"

Carol brushed the front of her shirt. "Maggie ate this morning, but went back to sleep—which is what she needs to do."

"Daryl?"

Carol took a deep breath. "Hershel's worried—he and T-dog left this early to find some supplies." She wiped her hands on her pants and looked toward Daryl.

Rick sighed, lowered the cup to his lap and closed his eyes.

"T-dog, Hershel and I put you to bed last night after you fell asleep in the chair," Carol said, placing her hands on her hips. "You needed to sleep." She turned and walked back to the BBQ. "They'll be fine, Rick, we have to believe that."

Rick looked toward Daryl, finding him still flat on his back, but restless, head turned toward the wall, covered in blankets, the sounds of his breathing now hindered with fluid in his lungs. Rick kicked off the blankets, stood and felt the pressure of his bladder, but stepped toward Daryl, knelt and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. "He feels warm?" He turned toward Carol, but found himself facing Lori.

"Fever started early this morning," Lori said, glancing toward Glenn and Carl as they returned from searching more storage units. Arms filled with boxes and bags. "Hershel said it was expected, we haven't been able to get fluids into him—so they're going to try and find some IV fluids."

Rick nodded and stood, taking a sip of his coffee. He watched his son barrel around the corner of the unit with a box.

"Look, dad," Carl said, setting the box on the floor next to the bed. "More comics," he pulled out a stack, all were still in the clear plastic wrappers. "I found these too," he showed his father the small action figures and a brass compass with engravings and designs that had long ago tarnished.

Rick took the compass and ran his fingers across the copper engraved scenery of long grass and hunting dogs. He handed it back to Carl. "Take care of that."

Carl nodded and shoved the piece into his pocket.

"Don't you already have those?" Rick asked, picking up the Daredevil series.

Carl shook his head. "Not those, I had the later editions—these are earlier." He grabbed the box and moved it to his spot on the bed and started to review his stash.

Glenn chuckled and set his box and the duffle bag he found on the ground near the end of the bed. "Found some camping gear, propane, cook stove, lanterns, fishing gear, even some ammo." His voice had cleared, but he continued to cough on occasion—just enough to clear his throat. Rest had done him good.

Rick slapped his shoulder in gesture and nodded. "How's Maggie?"

Glenn looked past him and toward the bed where she still slept. "Coughed most of the night, but the fever's gone." He rubbed the back of his neck and shifted.

"What is it?"

Glenn swallowed and glanced from Lori to Carol and back to Rick. "We're pretty secluded here," he spoke faster when Rick started to shake his head, "we could stay here—just for a while—until we get back on our feet. Maggie still needs time to rest," he looked toward Daryl, "and he—shit… Daryl's in a bad way, Rick—"

"Hershel went to find some medications," Rick stepped forward and lowered his voice. "As soon as we can—we have to move, we can't stay here, Glenn, this isn't a place to make a home—raise a family—hell, this isn't even a place people bothered to store decent shit in.

"What happens when the roofs fails, or a herd of walkers come by?"

Glenn nodded. "I just... I just thought with a little more time we could..."

Rick nodded and grasped Glenn's shoulder. "I know—let's get Maggie and Daryl back on their feet. We can move forward from there." He released his hold and turned toward the vastness of the heath behind them. "I've got to find a tree."

Glenn nodded. "Girls to the left, boys to the right—just behind the storage units to the east."

Rick nodded, slapped Glenn's shoulder and then took the short walk.

They were all busy. Lori and Carol worked to cook a meager meal, while Beth—now feeling better—busied herself with cleaning the dishes from the night before. Glenn returned to search through the remaining storage units, and Rick joined him shortly after his morning ritual. The scent of the BBQ briquettes permeated the air. Water was boiling, chili slowly warming, and Carol worked some flour to make hard biscuits.

The morning had promised a better day as the clouds dispersed and allowed the sun to shine. Air particles danced, while the puddles of mud and standing water worked to evaporate. It would not warm enough provide any heat, but the 50 degree temperatures were better than the prior days.

Everything was changing, the people, the land, the buildings, even the weather. Beth looked toward the fence line and watched the sparrows dance along the foliage. Crows pecked and searched the garbage that had collected at the base of the fence, while quail marched in serpentine rows from the road to the creek below.

"Maybe we could catch a few of them," Beth said, looking toward Lori, who had also caught sight of the quail, most of which looked well fed and rounded, "Daddy used to trade with a rancher down the road from the farm—they'd swap beef for game."

Lori smiled and nodded. "Any ideas on how to catch them?"

"Daryl'd know," Carol said, flattening the biscuits and placing them on a tin pan.

Beth nodded, and turned to look at him. He had not moved. She liked Daryl; he scared her a bit, because he acted rough and at times rude. Despite that, despite his foul language that caused her father to wince and Carl to giggle, or his quick temper that made Rick pause, or the fact that he seemed to be the only one who understood how to survive in a world that did not want them, perhaps it was because he had faced it before. Beth scratched her cheek, brushed her hair behind her ear and continued to dry the dishes.

"What happens if Daryl dies?" Beth looked up and met Carol then Lori's eyes. Beth was not apologetic when they looked at her, "what happens if T-dog and Daddy don't come back?" She turned and looked toward the gate, willing it to open.

"That's not going to happen," Lori said, taking a deep breath and glancing toward Carol.

"How do you know?" Beth said, and grabbed the stack of cleaned and dried dishes. She stood, placed the stack on a box near the BBQ and slipped her hands into her back pockets. Her jeans were stained, and holes now warn in the knees. Black stockings could be seen beneath. Her shirt, a long sleeved tee with the New York Yankees logo above her right breast, showed signs of wear and grease stains. She wore a light blue jacket with pockets on the arms.

"Are you thinking about dying?" Lori asked, tapping the spoon on the edge of the pot after stirring the chili. She turned to look at her, head tilted in an effort to solicit a response.

"How can I not?" Beth shrugged, crossed her arms over her chest and looked again toward the gate. She returned her gaze to Lori, "It's doesn't mean I want to—not anymore."

Lori nodded, moved to stand beside her, wrapped her right arm around Beth's shoulders and rubbed her arm. Lori smiled and took a deep breath when she heard the faint sounds of an engine, and moments later the front gate was pushed open by Hershel, who quickly returned to the car, and drove toward them. T-dog followed with a silver club cab truck. He jumped out, shut the gate and followed Hershel, parking right behind him.

Before Hershel could open the car door, Beth ran toward him, opened the door and gave him a hug. He kissed her cheek and reassured her as only a farther could. He slipped out of the car, opened the trunk and grabbed a bright orange bag, slipped the shoulder strap over his shoulder and walked with Beth back toward their temporary shelter. He looked proud of himself. An accomplishment well achieved. T-dog parked the Dodge next to the suburban and grabbed a box from the back seat.

"Welcome back," Lori said, stepping out of Hershel's way as he entered the unit. She stayed next to the BBQ and grabbed Beth's arm, keeping her from following. "Give them some space."

Carol dried her hands on a towel and joined Hershel. "His fever's been consistent—no change," she said, standing behind him, waiting for orders.

He placed the orange bag on the bed next to Daryl, knelt, and pressed his fingers to Daryl's jugular. "He been coughing at all?"

Carol shook her head. "No. I tried to get him to drink earlier, but he wouldn't take it and I didn't want him to choke." She crossed her arms over her chest and then chewed the thumbnail of her right hand.

Hershel nodded and looked up when a shadow overcast him. "I'll need some light, some warm water, and we'll need a few more pillows." He turned and looked toward Rick. "I'm going to need your help."

Rick stepped into the room as instructed. He moved to the head of the bed and knelt while Carol collected pillows, Lori gathered some flashlights and Beth ladled hot water into a cup to make coffee for her father.

"I've got to get an IV going—he's so dehydrated it's going to be difficult finding a vein." Hershel opened the orange bag, grabbed a bag of fluids and handed it to Carol who had piled the pillows near the end of the center bed, "Open that up and rip off the plastic cap." He then grabbed the catheter and a line and placed them on the blankets covering Daryl's chest. Reaching beneath the blankets, he pulled Daryl's arm from the confines and looked up at Rick. "Hold your hand right here," he motioned toward the middle of Daryl's bicep, "tight, but not too tight—I'll tell you when to let up."

Hershel cradled Daryl's right arm in his left hand while carefully feeling for a vein with his right thumb and forefinger. "Tighter, Rick—he's so dry I'll be lucky to hit anything."

Rick tightened his hold, adjusting his fingers until he could feel Daryl's pulse.

Hershel clenched his jaw, lowered Daryl's hand and continued to search for a vein. He caught his breath for moment when he felt the curvature and pulse of a vein four inches above the base of Daryl's thumb. "Who's on my right?"

"I am," Lori said, stepping closer and placing her hand on Hershal's shoulder.

"Open that alcohol swab and hand it to me." Hershel took the swab, and wiped the area thoroughly. "Open that catheter—just pull the plastic top off—don't touch it." Lori did as she was asked. Hershel clenched his jaw and pinched the end of the catheter. He pressed it to Daryl's skin, and carefully inserted it halfway before pausing to pull back on the needle, making sure blood was within the confines. He sighed when he did not see any. He adjusted the needle moving it right and then left, pulling back on the needle to check.

Daryl never moved.

Hershel sighed, pursed his lips and slid the needle further in, said a quick prayer, and pulled back on the needle. He sighed when he spotted blood. "You can let go, Rick. Lori, cut me off three pieces of tape," he said, and pulled the needle out of the catheter and then screwed the end of the line onto the catheter head. He taped it into place, released the stopper and allowed the fluids to drip.

"How's he doin'?" Glenn asked, standing near the entry of the unit, out of the way, but able to see.

Hershel grabbed his stethoscope, pulled the blankets back exposing Daryl's chest, and listened to his heart and lungs. His heart still beat too fast, and his lungs sounded worse than they had earlier that morning. Hershel took a deep breath, and quickly took Daryl's blood pressure before leaning back onto his heels. He reached into the orange bag, grabbed a syringe and a small bottle. "Blood pressure's up, but his pulse is still too fast," he looked up toward Glenn, "We need to get his chest elevated," he said, and then drew fluid into the syringe.

"Hershel?" Rick swallowed and pressed his lips into a fine line.

Hershel injected the antibiotic directly into the catheter and took a deep breath. He rubbed his face, looked toward Maggie who was now sitting up and waiting for an answer. He smiled reassuringly at her and looked toward Rick. Hershel rubbed his brow. He was a veterinarian, not a medical doctor.

Hershel cleared his throat and hazard guessed. "I think," he looked at Rick, "hypothermia caused dehydration, lack of calories and sleep has caused extreme physical exhaustion, which has led to pneumonia, and because of his exhaustion," he shrugged, "he's not coughing up the fluid that's building up in his lungs."

Rick sat back and sighed. "He goin' to make it?" He looked at Hershel.

"Are we sure he wasn't bit?" Maggie said, raising her eyebrows and looking from her father to Glenn.

Carol clenched her jaw and shook her head. "He wouldn't have come back if he had been and this didn't start with a fever." She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at Hershel. "What does he need? And, what do we need to do to keep him alive?" She pursed her lips and tilted her head to the right.

"Get him hydrated, and now that his blood pressure is up we need to get his chest elevated, monitor his vitals." Hershel paused, rubbed his face and looked toward his patient. "We could still lose him. But my hope is we can get him coughing, get some electrolytes into him, and get his fever down.

"He's tough… tougher than we all think." Hershel rubbed his thighs as his muscles burned, "hell, he should be dead already." He slowly got to his feet, and stood aside while Carol moved next to Rick and together they positioned Daryl in an upright position and shoved the pillows behind him.

Carol took a seat behind Daryl, and provided the stability needed to keep the pillows in place. She placed her hand on his forehead and pushed his bangs from his face while she listened to him breathe and grow restless with the fever. She looked up and met Lori's eyes. "Hand me a damp cloth."

Lori grabbed a basin, poured a small amount of water into it and handed that and a washcloth to Carol. "Need anything else?"

Carol shook her head, rinsed the cloth and draped it over Daryl's forehead.

"What if we have to move?" Rick stood next to the bed, looking between Daryl and Hershel, hands on his hips.

"Let's pray we don't."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Daryl coughed, and then in a panic because he could not breathe, leaned forward and listed right, coughing while trying to inhale. The wheezing and frantic gasps echoed in the confined space. He felt someone grab his shoulders and try to pull him back, but the tightness and pressure on his chest kept him forward. He grasped the blankets that fell at his waist. Muscles flexed as he gasped for air between coughs, wheezing past the fluid in his lungs.

"Hershel!" Rick yelled, seated behind Daryl while keeping hold of his shoulders as he struggled to breathe. "Come on, Daryl—don't do this." Rick shifted his position, keeping Daryl from collapsing to his right. "Hershel!" Rick slipped his right arm across Daryl's right arm and chest, and felt his muscles strain for relief.

Lori protectively grabbed onto Carl as they both watched Rick work to maintain his hold and Daryl struggled to breathe. Though he did not have the energy to fight against Rick, Daryl's attempts to breathe had them all wanting to breathe for him, and for a moment nobody knew what to do. Carl watched, eyes wide, muscles tensed, and then the tears started. "It's okay… he's going to be okay," Lori repeated the mantra, kissed Carl's head as she too waited.

Glenn could not watch, and instead focused his attention on the back of Rick's jacket, while he held Maggie's hand. She leaned against him and watched her father rush into the room, Carol a few feet behind. Hershel's jaw clenched, eyes determined, and Maggie knew without asking the current state of emergency.

It was different watching someone die of natural causes than watching them suffer the results of the epidemic. Both were painful and traumatic, but only one could have been prevented. It was easy to assume the only threat were those willing to do harm. It was also easy to forget the impact life could have while just trying to survive. Perhaps 80 hour work weeks and coronary issues were of the past, but working too hard for too long was just as deadly as they had ever been.

Hershel knelt on the bed and placed his right hand on Daryl's back. He could feel muscles flex, tense, and quiver beneath Daryl's dampened cotton shirt. His short damp hair clung to his scalp, and his completion had faded to ghostly white.

"He can't breathe," Rick said, trying to move Daryl upright.

"He can," Hershel said, grabbing his stethoscope, "it's just difficult for him." He slipped the ends into his ears, placed the chest piece to Daryl's back, and listened. He moved the piece from left to right, then with Rick's help, positioned Daryl upright and leaning against Rick. Hershel then listened to Daryl's heart before pressing his fingers once again to his neck.

Flushed with exertion Daryl stared up at the ceiling with half hooded eyes, lethargically blinked and closed them. He shifted his feet, clenched the blanket pooling at his waist and continued to struggle to breath. He rested against Rick, head tucked between his shoulder and neck. Daryl's body had simply had enough and despite strength and tenacity, he was at the mercy of it.

Hershel looked at him, pursed his lips and then wiped Daryl's brow with the damp cloth Carol handed him. He met Rick's eyes and spoke softly. "You comfortable?"

Rick nodded, clenched jaw and adjusted his grip.

"Can't you give him something," Lori said, "just to help him breathe?"

Hershel shook his head and winced when Daryl listed right again as a coughing fit took hold. Hershel kept him upright, while Rick maintained his hold. Daryl gasped, groaned, and wheezed. Though the fluid in his lungs was breaking apart, he was simply lacking the energy to expel it.

Carol grabbed the orange bag, opened it, and grabbed a small tube of Vaseline and then grabbed a tin plate from the makeshift kitchen as well as the cayenne. She mixed the cayenne into the Vaseline and moved back into the room. "Take his shirt off," she said, still mixing the ingredients. "I used to use this on Sophia when she was little," she said, "she was allergic to most medications, but this helped." She knelt beside Rick while he and Hershel slipped Daryl out of his shirt.

Daryl, still leaning forward and held uncomfortably in Hershel's arms, flinched when Carol pressed her hand to his back and carefully applied the cayenne ointment in a circular fashion. She started around his shoulder blades, across the scars, tattoos, and then moved to his sides and spine. She could feel the heat of the cayenne and noticed the redness of his skin, but she continued to massage. She laid a thin piece of cotton over his back and then moved out of the way so Hershel and Rick could position Daryl back against Rick's chest.

Hershel stood and Carol took his place next to Daryl's hip and applied the ointment to his chest. "We should reapply this every couple hours," Carol said, listening to Daryl struggle though cough after cough, and grow weaker through his attempts.

Rick shifted his legs and moved the pillows to better support his back while he maintained his position. He watched Hershel change the lactated ringer, and inject another dose of antibiotic into the catheter. "His fever seems higher?"

Hershel nodded, but it did not concern him. "Maybe you can switch with T-dog in a bit."

"Hershel?"

"Time will tell, Rick, that's all I can tell you." Hershel took a deep breath as he stood, scratched his neck and walked to the opening for some fresh air.

"I'm going to walk the perimeter," T-dog said, looking toward Rick, "then I'll switch with you."

Rick nodded, clasped Daryl's shoulder and looked toward his wife and son as they looked back at him, seeking answers and hope. He looked away when he could not give them what they wanted. Even Beth looked defeated, seated next to Carl, wrapped in a blanket and waiting for the inevitable. Rick pulled the blankets up to Daryl's shoulders and listened to him breathe.

Rick should have seen it coming. He should have noticed how far they were pushing themselves to meet his expectations. The long hours of driving, little sleep, even less food, and the spent energy of constantly being on edge. Rick could see it now, the toll it had taken. He could see it in the eyes of his family, their exhaustion, hunger, fear, and need. He clenched his jaw and watched as Carol pressed her fingers to Daryl's throat and then cup his cheek in her right hand.

"I'm sorry," Rick said, looking at her.

Carol smiled, took a deep breath and with a shrug said, "You're doing the best you can." She maintained her position on the bed and mixed more cayenne into some Vaseline. "I didn't trust you at first," she looked at her hands as she stirred the mixture, "and at times I still have my doubts…" she looked up and met his eyes, "but I also know that without you, we wouldn't be here.

"We've hit a bump in the road, Rick, and we'll hit more—just need to get through it." Carol sighed, and then sneezed when the cayenne tickled her nose.

Daryl coughed again, raising his head from Rick's shoulder and listed slightly to the right again, this time, Rick braced his right arm around Daryl's shoulders and kept him upright. His coughing increased; the sounds of infection in his lungs breaking apart echoed and caused Rick and Carol both to wince in sympathy. Daryl gasped, and inhaled though graveled breath. He grasped the blankets at his waist and groaned.

Hershel returned and took a seat on the mattress after Carol stood to give him room. He listened again to Daryl's lungs and nodded toward Rick. Hershel grabbed the dampened rag from Carol and wiped Daryl's face, and smiled while he noticed Daryl looking at him.

"Welcome back," Hershel said with a smile. He turned, rinsed the washcloth in the basin Beth had provided and then placed it on Daryl's forehead.

Carl watched his father support Daryl, though this wasn't the first time—having seen Shane and his dad half-carry half-drag Daryl back to the farmhouse after he had been shot by Andrea. This time though, Carl could not escape it. He was not shielded from it, this time he was in the middle, watching, waiting, and feeling the intense fear of loss. He knew it because his mother held him tightly, and she too, waited anxiously. Daryl had always been tuff, allusive, and at times, he scared him. His quick temper had gotten him into trouble, but Carl had heard his father joking about Daryl's tenacity, and his strength of determination. But what Carl saw a man who fought just for the hell of it, and someone who looked like they knew how to take a beating.

"How'd he get all those scars?" Carl asked. He looked from his mother and then back to his father who only shook his head.

Hershel cleared his throat. "Some of us were fortunate enough to have good fathers," he looked at Rick, "and I'm guessing Daryl knows the power of bad one." He turned toward Carl, face stern and voice low, "But that's not your concern."

Carl swallowed.

Lori squeezed his shoulders and kissed the top of his head, a routine she used to avoid answering his questions, or reassure him that things would be fine, even though they would not be. She brushed his bangs from his eyes, gripped his chin, and smiled. "It doesn't matter, okay?"

Rick looked toward Hershel. "Daryl tell you that?" He raised his left eyebrow and waited for the answer.

Hershel shook his head and met Rick's eyes. In a low voice he said, "He didn't have to."

Rick took a deep breath and looked at his son.

Carl nodded, but pursed his lips. He was young, but understood the discomfort he had caused. He grabbed a short stack of comics and flipped casually though the pages.

Daryl swallowed and looked toward Hershel. He could see Carol standing behind him and T-dog watching from the corner. He closed his eyes and slowly relaxed. He never felt the shift of Rick behind him as T-dog took over.

"You should get some sleep," Carol said, grasping Hershel's shoulder while he sat on the bed next to Daryl. "We can watch him."

Hershel nodded and took a deep breath. "That sounds like a good idea." He stood, stretched his shoulders and exhaled. "Wake me if there's any change." He grabbed a blanket, nodded toward Maggie and Glenn and then took a seat on the bed nearest the roll up door. He smiled toward Beth, lay back, pulled the blanket up to his shoulders, and closed his eyes.

Carol looked toward T-dog and smiled. "You okay?"

T-dog nodded and then chuckled: "Figure he saved my life a few times—I owe him."

Carol nodded. "We all do."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Rick buttoned the front of his jacket and looked toward the open fields behind the units. He shoved his hands into his pockets and listened as the water boiled on the BBQ. Carol organized clothes, tossing what they would not use and folding what they would: heavy shirts, jackets, pants, socks and scarves. Using the duffle bags and plastic bins, she organized each by size and person. She looked toward Daryl, who had struggled through fits of coughing and difficulty breathing, but now breathed easier. Still pale, cheeks gaunt, and curled on his right side, she could tell he was not sleeping.

He had pulled the IV from his arm sometime during the night, after the line had tangled around his wrist. Though Hershel had wanted to insert another, Daryl had struggled enough against it to exhaust not just himself, but those around him. Instead, Hershel settled for a Barney Band-Aid, threw his hands into the air and swore that handling feral cats was easier than handling a half-dead Dixon.

Daryl had been aware enough to flip him the finger.

Rick and T-dog had laughed, more from relief than Daryl's comedic timing. It had been the moment they all realized he would be fine. It was that moment that provided them with the peace they had been missing—no conflict, fear, or feelings of impending doom. For a moment in time they were all able to relax, breathe a sigh of relief, and think about the future as a whole rather than a part.

Lori scraped the last of the peanut butter from the jar and spread it across the last biscuit. She handed it to Carl who shrugged, but ate it anyway. She looked toward Hershel who helped T-dog tie the motorcycle into the bed of the Ram. Glenn and Beth worked to combine the equipment Glenn had found days prior. Camping gear that would come in handy. Maggie sat on the lawn chair, wrapped in a blanket and looking toward the fields below. Her battle had not been near as dire, she still felt the effects the illness held on her. She smiled reassuringly toward Glenn who turned toward her, _a quick check_ , as he continued his duties.

Rick had been right. Despite the first impression of the storage units and the space it provided, it was not home, and it never would be. The winter weather had arrived full force and the cold days had turned into colder nights. The steel structure could not keep the cold out, nor would it keep the heat out when summer arrived. Their food was nearly gone, and what little they did have was being stretched too thin.

A light shadow of fog rested just above the creek, and frost had tipped the edges of the foliage. After four days of living in the storage unit, time was once again against them. They had no choice but to leave.

Hershel grabbed the frame of the Ram's bed and carefully stepped off the tailgate. He wiped his hands on his pants and looked toward Rick who nodded. Carol and Lori worked to load the back of the suburban with their newfound supplies, while T-dog moved to help Glenn finish with the camping gear.

Daryl slowly pushed himself into a seated position, grabbed the heavy blue plaid work-shirt that had been left for him, and slipped it on. His fever was gone, but his pale complexion reflected his battle. He still coughed, and felt the extent of exhaustion and dehydration. He pulled the Band-Aid off his arm where the IV had been inserted, ran his hand over his face, and then rubbed the back of his neck. He paused a moment, looked toward the others as they prepared for the next part of the journey before grabbing the socks that had been left near his bed with his shoes and slipped them on.

"Hershel says you're not to push it—don't want you to relapse." Rick stepped toward him and reached out with his right hand.

Daryl clenched his jaw and nodded. He grabbed Rick's hand, sighed, and allowed him to pull him to his feet. Daryl paused, felt his head spin, and felt Rick's hand slip beneath his right arm. Daryl had been up and down over the past two days, but for short periods, as his body simply did not have the strength for much more.

"I gotta piss," Daryl said, looking toward the others as they prepared for the next leg of the trip. They were waiting on him and he knew it.

Rick chuckled.

Daryl sighed and winced. "Fuck you, Grimes."

Rick chuckled. "Good to have you back." He slapped Daryl's shoulder in a friendly gesture and stepped back as Daryl moved past him. Rick looked up and noticed Hershel watching.

Rick took a deep breath, nodded as Carol walked by. She grasped his arm above his elbow to reassure him of his decision to leave, and then grabbed the pillow Daryl had been using. She put it on the seat behind the passenger seat of the Ram. The caravan was ready. Cars were loaded. T-dog would take the lead with the suburban. Beth, Carl and Lori would ride with him. Carol would drive the car, while Glenn and Maggie rode with her, and Rick would follow with Daryl and Hershel.

Hershel sighed, stepped up to Rick and watched as his family, some by blood, others by circumstance, made themselves comfortable. "About ready?" he asked, but already knew the answer.

Rick nodded, clenched his jaw and slipped his hands to his waist. "How long can we go before somethin' else happens?" He stared into the distance, not looking at anything, but focusing on a future only he could see.

Hershel, with his arms crossed over his chest, chuckled and shook his head. "Somethin' always happens, Rick—that's the only part of life that hasn't changed." He took a deep breath as Daryl came back around the corner and walked toward them. "We're goin' to move and go as long as we can, just like we have been," he looked at Rick, "but, this time we have to be open to possibilities we didn't think possible.

"Perfect doesn't exist anymore," Hershel shrugged, "and it's going to get worse before it gets better."

Rick frowned, but nodded in agreement. He looked at Hershel and then watched Daryl slip onto the back seat of the club cab, lean back against the seat and exhale deeply. He shoved the pillow Carol had left behind his head and relaxed his shoulders. The short walk was enough to exhaust him.

"I can't protect everyone... not all the time... and I'm not sure what to do about it." Rick ran his fingers through his hair, listening as the engines were started and fumes escaped tailpipes.

Hershel turned, cleared this throat and raised his eyebrows in question. "Who said you had to?" He reached for Rick's shoulder and gave him a fatherly squeeze. "Doin' the best you can isn't good enough sometimes...You have to live with that," he shrugged, "and so do the rest of us, but there isn't a person here who would blame you for failin'... we can't ask that of you, Rick, we can't ask that of anyone.

"Get comfortable with it, because if you don't... it'll eat you up inside." Hershel handed Daryl a protein bar, shut the back door and slipped into the passenger seat while Rick climbed onto the driver's seat and started the engine.

"Eat that," Hershel said, turning toward Daryl, "you need the nutrition—it'll help you get your strength back." He turned back toward the front and watched T-dog lead the way.

Daryl pulled the plastic off the bar and took a bite. He looked out the window and could see the dark clouds of another storm gathering in the east. He looked ahead and caught Rick's eyes in the rearview mirror.

"We're headed northwest," Rick said, and nodded when Daryl accepted the answer to the unasked question. "Figure it might give us some options."

Daryl clenched his jaw and nodded. "Hope so."

End


End file.
